


I Will Fear No Evil, For Thou Art With Me

by babykid528, thatmysticbafflingwonder (babykid528)



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [24]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Dehydration, Exhaustion, Feelings, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Starvation, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 14:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6288046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babykid528/pseuds/babykid528, https://archiveofourown.org/users/babykid528/pseuds/thatmysticbafflingwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>George considers himself pretty well prepared for the things that can happen in this revolution. Having hope for a better future doesn’t mean he isn’t well aware of the truth of their situation: they have a long, hard fight in front of them. They are outgunned, outmanned, outnumbered, and out planned – he knows all of this getting into this fight. He isn’t, however, quite as prepared for watching his men, the very men who swore they were ready to follow him to the ends of the earth, shivering, filthy, underdressed, underfed, and falling ill faster than they can be triaged.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Fear No Evil, For Thou Art With Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rabidchild67](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/gifts).



> I told RC to give me a Hamilton prompt and she asked me to write some swooning!Hamilton and protective!Washington… this is my first time writing for this fandom, and, full disclosure, I’m nervous as hell about this, but I’m sharing it anyway. Because I love RC a lot. ;-) <3

George considers himself pretty well prepared for the things that can happen in this revolution. Having hope for a better future doesn’t mean he isn’t well aware of the truth of their situation: they have a long, hard fight in front of them. They are outgunned, outmanned, outnumbered, and out planned – he knows all of this getting into this fight. He isn’t, however, quite as prepared for watching his men, the very men who swore they were ready to follow him to the ends of the earth, shivering, filthy, underdressed, underfed, and falling ill faster than they can be triaged. 

Valley Forge is a fresh new hell he doesn’t even have the chance to imagine before it is already upon them.

There are murmurs among the troops. None will say it to him directly, or even say it too loudly, but there are whispers calling Valley Forge the actual Valley of the Shadow of Death. Hamilton does his best to keep the whispers from reaching George’s ears, but they manage to drift to him, nevertheless, between the sounds of the troops’ rattling coughs and chattering teeth.

Hamilton himself is working non-stop. Every moment of the day, he is either attending directly to George or writing, furiously. He sends letter after letter, and writes more than he sends. He’s working on something, new ideas blooming in his mind despite the bleak situation they find themselves in, and George can do little to dissuade him. Hamilton is a force unto himself and he is often the only thing reminding George, on the worst of days, to keep going. 

If only he could get Hamilton to stop once in a while.

“Alexander,” George says, entering the office set up adjacent to his chambers in the house they’d claimed as the center of their operations.

Hamilton gives a weak little sound of acknowledgement, but he doesn’t look up from what he was scribbling. His quill hasn’t left the page for longer than it takes to re-ink it, not since Hamilton sat down at his desk mid-afternoon. 

“Hamilton,” George says, mustering up a more authoritative tone.

That does the trick. Hamilton’s head shoots up and he blinks away the bleariness clouding his expression.

“Your Excellency?” he asks, startled. “My apologies. I was mid-phrase.”

George watches him a moment, taking in his ragged appearance, and gives a tight nod. “I’m sorry to interrupt, son. I was hoping to dictate a letter…”

He trails off as he watches Hamilton light up at the suggestion. George knows he hasn’t had much to say himself as of late, entrusting Hamilton to reply to the majority of his correspondence without so much as proofing his language before it can be sent. He has heard from Ben Franklin though, regarding some Prussian he think could be of help to their dying men. It’s the most hopeful bit of news George has heard in too long. He needs to cling to that and reply to it himself, with Hamilton’s assistance, of course.

“Yes, sir,” Hamilton says with more gusto than he should physically be capable of mustering. “Did you want to dictate here? Or should I join you next door?”

Hamilton’s set up, ready to go whenever George gives the signal. His table is a mess of writing, though and George wants to make sure he stretches a little before they begin.

“Next door,” George orders. “A change of scenery will do you good, I think.”

Hamilton looks about to protest, but he just sighs and nods. “I’ll bring my quill and ink.”

George nods, too, “Good man.”

When he turns to leave, there’s a clatter and crash behind him. His stomach drops to the soles of his feet as he turns to see what’s happened. A splatter of spilled ink, dark and gleaming in the dying light of day, fans across the floor. There are papers scatters, half soaking up the spill. Whatever written contents they contained are half ruined, lost forever. And then there’s Hamilton, prone and apparently lifeless, on the ground, half-hidden behind his desk.

George crosses to him in one stride, careful as he moves him to discern if he’s injured, or worse. He finds a reedy pulse, shallow breath, and no apparent injuries, so he hoists Hamilton into his arms before he can think of another plan of action, and he carefully takes him next door. He’s just laying him on his own bed when Laurens enters the doorway.

“Sir?” he asks. “I heard… are you okay?”

“Hamilton fell,” George tells him. 

Laurens looks stricken. “No. I… Is he okay?”

George shrugs and Laurens’ face seems to fall further, if at all possible, as he shifts a step into the room. “I’ll get a medic,” he says.

“Yes, thank you, John,” George says.

“No, no medic,” Hamilton protests, voice weak.

George turns to him, scowling, “Yes, a medic.” 

Hamilton looks ready to argue further, but John is off before he can say another word.

“I’m fine,” Hamilton says, voice tinged with embarrassment. “I just got a little dizzy.”

“You collapsed, son,” George tells him. Swooned, really. He won’t voice that thought though. Embarrassment may look pretty on Hamilton, but George’s heart is beating too fast for him to goad right now.

“I just stood too quickly,” Hamilton protests.

George paces beside the bed, glaring at Hamilton as he tries to sit up. He nods as Hamilton, resigned, lays back down. He closes his eyes, probably as another wave of dizziness passes over him. John enters again with one of the camp medics before either he or Hamilton can say anything else. Then it’s a flurry of motion and rehashing what happened. When everything is said and done, the medic diagnoses Hamilton as dehydrated and hungry. He gives a hopeless little shrug George’s way, having made the same diagnosis for literally every other man stationed at the camp, including George himself, before he takes his leave. Laurens hovers by the doorway, all nervous energy, as the medic goes past.

“John,” George says, voice soft in the now quiet room. “Could you go get some broth from my personal stores downstairs, please?”

Laurens gives him a look, one George can’t quit decipher, before he nods and exits, shutting the door behind himself.

“Sir.” Hamilton doesn’t say anything more, just waits. George can’t bring himself to look at him yet though.

“When did you last eat, Alexander?” he asks.

He’s met with silence.

“When did you last drink?” he asks.

He’s met with further silence.

“When did you last sleep?” he asks.

When the only reply is further silence, George finally looks at him. Hamilton’s pale face has gone scarlet with a mixture of indignation and embarrassment.

“Goddammit, Alexander,” George growls, watching his boy flinch at the curse and tone of voice.

A knock at the door interrupts them again. George crosses to it, swinging it open, and startles Laurens. George deflates a little, smiles at the young man, and gratefully accepts the bowl he’s carrying. He offers his thanks, and when Laurens asks if he can be of further assistance, he dismisses him, closing the door again.

George places the bowl carefully on his own desk and crosses to help Hamilton up into a seated position; his right hand man won’t make eye contact with him throughout the whole process. Once he’s seated, George grabs a chair and places it beside the bed before retrieving the bowl. Hamilton reaches out to take the bowl from him, but George shakes his head. Instead, he sits in the chair and proceeds to stir the warm broth before offering a spoonful to Hamilton.

“Sir,” Hamilton attempts to protest.

George gives him one stern look and he goes silent before, reluctantly, dropping open his mouth. His face pinks further at the indignity of the whole situation, but George doesn’t care. He brought this on himself. If he had only taken better care. If he had only been less willing to work himself to death… By the end of the bowl, Hamilton’s color has come closer back to it’s normal, slightly golden hue, and George is pleased to note that he’s drifting close to sleep. 

George stands and goes to his desk to deposit the empty bowl.

“Sir,” Hamilton says, voice soft with sleep and, possibly, contrition, “I’m sorry.”

George tenses a moment, grips the edge of his desk, and then sighs a mighty sigh. He feels weary as he turns. As weary as Hamilton appears. He wants to say so many things in reply – how Hamilton _should_ be sorry, how _he’s_ the sorry one, how this is hell on _everyone_ , how Hamilton’s death wish is going to be the _death of him_ , how he’s led armies into massacres and still he’s never been as _scared_ as he was when he saw Hamilton on the floor earlier – instead, he sighs again and gives his boy a little nod.

“Get some sleep, son,” he says.

He knows Hamilton must be weaker than he’d ever let on because he nods in return and simply shuts his eyes, breath evening out as he falls into slumber far faster than George thought possible for the young writer. George flexes his hands into fists at his sides and sighs again. When Hamilton doesn’t stir, he shakes his head, and crosses the room quietly to stand at his side. He reaches for Hamilton’s head, hand trembling more than slightly, and he strokes his hair, just once, before taking his seat again. He’ll just watch him a little. Hamilton might get up and try to sneak out to write more, after all. He needs to make sure his order is followed. That’s all. That’s the only reason he can’t stop staring at Hamilton now. That’s the only reason he stays to watch him until he wakes three hours later.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone has any prompts they'd like filled, stop by my tumblr - [thatmysticbafflingwonder](http://thatmysticbafflingwonder.tumblr.com/) \- and leave me an ask! :-)


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